One year ago today, my daughter came earthside after what seemed like the longest, most traumatic, joyless pregnancy. Admitting those awful things hurts, but I hated being pregnant. Just like every other pregnancy I’ve been through, hers came with a constant battle within myself. Control. I had none. This is my truth. It’s ugly, but it’s real. As a pulled my baby into my arms for the very first time, I immediately felt the most intense emotional relief of my life. As I sat back in my own bed, just moments after delivering my sweet girl, I looked at her face for the first time and…stopped. Something was wrong. Her eyes were not symmetrical. The room was filled with so much joy, I didn’t want to ruin that feeling so I kept quiet. I remember mentioning briefly to my midwife about her eye. Her face. Does this look okay to you? As the days passed, something was wrong. She was upset all the time. I took her to the chiropractor several times a week, that should help right? It didn’t. Soon her crooked eye revealed it’s true identity; dacryocystocele. At three weeks old, her tear duct ruptured. Her pediatrician prescribed an eye ointment, she was born at home and didn’t get any erythromycin in her eyes; sometimes it happens, she said. It's just a mild infection. Thrush followed, accompanied by severe acid reflux. Her eye wasn’t getting better, and I spent my day taking care of a screaming baby and her infected eye. So why did I not take her in to see a doctor? Because I couldn’t. I was *SO* overwhelmed with my day to day life, the thought literally never crossed my mind. I was that far gone into depression. Anxiety ran the show. Logic wasn’t there. At seven weeks old, her older sister had a checkup with her eye doctor. I took Ellavie along, praying she would sleep during the car ride there because the screaming in the car from my newborn was intolerable after enduring it for weeks. He took one look at her eye and told me he needed to fix it immediately and since we had the last appointment of the day, he would stay and do just that because this was a medical emergency and it could kill her. My postpartum anxiety stood in the way. I could have lost her because I couldn’t function. Fortunately, the probing in office was a success and both cysts blocking her tear duct were flushed out. The thrush, however, was not. It took another three months to resolve. The reflux is still ongoing. And here’s the hard part... I hated her. I hated my own baby. I did not feel a connection to her for many months. I didn't feel like she was my baby. I forced a smile whenever I had to but on the inside, I was DESPERATE for relief. I didn’t want to drive the car because it took every ounce of energy and strength in me to keep it on the road. I wish I could describe the feeling better but the urge to take my own life was almost like an instinct I had to fight CONSTANTLY every single day. The thoughts became so frequent, they were just normal. People would comment on how great I looked and how amazing I was for keeping it all together with all these kids. I wish I could have spoken up. I wish they could have heard me screaming internally. Occasionally I would get a comment, they would say how tired I looked. Tired. I was tired. I had a baby, three other kids, who wouldn’t be tired? But “tired” really just didn’t cut it. I don’t know if there was ever a distinct moment that I started feeling that connection to her. It seemed to just slowly grow and develop with time. My midwife could see I was in a crisis of sorts early on and took the initiative to call and help me schedule an appointment to see a doctor for the postpartum depression and anxiety. I was prescribed an antidepressant, but the anxiety prevented me from taking it for several weeks. I finally did start taking it, and it was a love-hate relationship from the start. I had horrible side effects from it. It helped with the anxiety, but it made me numb. As I look back on her first year, I am filled with grief, remorse, and regret. I remember so little and the majority of what I remember is traumatic. I feel like I’ve ruined her, set her life up so very wrong. I cannot even begin to explain how angry this makes me. At myself. Today should be a celebration, and it is! My beautiful girl is a whole year old. But oh how I wish I could have a do over. I wish so badly that I could go back 365 days and start her life over. It’s just another piece of the grief that comes with the realization that I will never have another baby.
I spent so much time preparing for her birth. I needed it to be perfect, healing, and it was! But I never imagined her first year would be like this. Postpartum mental illness took my joy. It stole the love and bonding that is my right as a mother. It has caused the deep aching void in me to grow. But it’s also taught me a whole new level of compassion. It has also brought out the true colors of those in my life. It has shown me just how wonderful people can be, and how horrible and closed-minded others are. I love my sweet girl so very much. She is so sassy and determined, smart and agile. I waited so long for her to come and now as she transitions out of baby-hood and into being a toddler, we will both navigate these new territories together. I just hope one day I can be as strong as her.
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I sit back and inhale the scent of newborn skin, the first month postpartum rounding to a close. This journey..will take a lifetime to process. The birth story of Ellavie Faith is so much more than the story of her birth, it began so long before her physical existence was known. When I was pregnant with my second baby, I had a dream. Those that know me well, know about my dreams. In this dream I had triplets, two boys and a girl. Throughout this pregnancy, I had many more dreams of the little girl with blonde hair. They were so real and so frequent, finding out the baby was a boy was a shock. The longing I felt for this little girl was unreal. When I was pregnant with my third baby, again the dreams picked up. I was sick, so so so sick. I was sure this was the final baby I would have and it would be that little girl. Boy. Another boy. I was so devastated. I was angry. I resented the little person growing inside of me, the reason I felt like I was wasting away. Over time, that began to change and by the time he was born, I was very well bonded to him. But the little girl from my dreams NEVER left my mind. She was always in my thoughts. I really struggled with having faith at this point. I didn’t want to be pregnant again. I didn’t want to be so sick again. I needed more time. It was a time of great emotional and spiritual torment. I was constantly searching for answers to why I was so sick with my third pregnancy. We spent hundreds of dollars trying to heal my body. I was told to avoid pregnancy at all costs because of the toll the last one had taken, the likelihood of carrying another baby to term and delivering without major deficits was extremely low. Again, my faith was shaken. If I was supposed to have this other baby, why was this all happening? I began to let go of the idea. I began to accept that my third baby would be my last. Until he wasn’t going to be because I was pregnant. Divine intervention. So I ate. I ate as much as I could. I took a ton of vitamins, drank protein shakes, and I ate. For two weeks, then it hit like a truck. The weight I gained was gone in a matter of days. I deteriorated so fast, it was really really scary. I was diagnosed with Hyperemesis Gravidarum, put on home IV therapy, referred to Maternal Fetal Medicine, accused of having an eating disorder, and told I was getting a feeding tube placed. I spent my days crying in bed, or laying on the bathroom floor. I was so weak. I was so angry. I tried so hard to fix my body so this wouldn’t happen again! I felt like God had abandoned me. We decided to find the gender out as soon as we could. So at nine weeks, I took a gender blood test. When the results came through that the baby was a girl, I couldn’t even get the words out to tell Devon. I just sobbed. Cried and cried and cried. Hope. The next several months, thanks to medication and being so proactive with treatment, I stabilized and we decided to transfer care to a home birth midwife. The pressure to have a perfect birth looming, paired with my complicated mental health history, finding that midwife was a very stressful matter. A choice I questioned for several months after it was made. Midway through the pregnancy, the reality of my physical health being on the decline hit us in the face when what should have been a minor infection took over my whole body and landed me in the hospital on three types of antibiotics over several days. Where was God? After an emergency tooth extraction, I slowly recovered from the infection and my mental health began a rapid decline. The month of September snuck up and danced it’s mockery in my face. The memories of my past more real than ever, thanks to parallel pregnancy dates. I’m still trying to make sense of those emotions. Towards the end of pregnancy, I am a WRECK. I warn everyone in my life to expect it, and this time sure did not disappoint. I warned my midwife, and even she was thrown for a loop when I had a pretty serious bout of false labor at 37 weeks that lasted into the early hours of the morning. It was maddening. Infuriating. Embarrassing. It triggered panic due to loss of control. I shut down, nobody could reach me. I felt betrayed by my body. By my midwife. By God. Each day after that I woke up crying. I was so emotional! I longed for this baby to come. To finally put this pregnancy to a close and all of the traumatic sickness behind me. So begins the end. Friday. October 27. The routine of the day moved forward, despite another night of prodromal labor. A passing thought “put a towel in the car”. I ignored it. Because why would I do that? The keys were gone, Devon took them to work by accident. Frantically searched the house for a spare. Ran to preschool, thought of going home but for what? Needed something different. Walmart works, we could use more food. And with Halloween approaching, I wanted a cape. I hadn’t planned a costume for myself since I was sure I wouldn’t want to participate in anything so Super Pregnant was all I could muster. Before getting out of the car, another passing thought “take your jacket”. It was a warm day, but I grabbed it anyways. They didn’t have any capes. So the two year old and I walked around without a list, taking our time. I was tired of rushing. I’ll never be able to look at gluten free chicken nuggets the same. Rounding the corner into that aisle in the middle of Walmart, I felt a pop. A warm gush of fluid followed. UH. Called Devon, hysterically laughing. He thought I was calling to let him have it about the keys again. I could barely speak. Frozen in place, afraid to move. “I think my water just broke…” Adrenaline filled my whole body. Baby was coming for sure, now. Excitement was quickly replaced with “OH SH*T I’M AT WALMART IN GRAY LEGGINGS” So after an internal ten minute debate, I tied my jacket around my waist and continued shopping. Yes, really. Two aisles in, it really became clear that my water had indeed broken as it continued to leak out so I texted my midwife to let her know. By the time I got to the checkout, I was still laughing. Everyone thought I was losing my mind, I’m sure. Two year olds are fantastic for having an excuse for this. My leggings were soaked to my knees, the cashier handed me my receipt, and I began what felt like THE LONGEST WALK TO MY CAR EVER. I got stuck behind a family walking like turtles. Then a ten year old blocking the doors with a cart while his mom looked through the RedBox. Finally got to my car, loaded everything, and headed home. Let me tell you, you don’t know road rage until your water breaks, you’re soaked, having contractions that send more warm fluid rushing out of your body, and trying to drive home while everyone seems to be taking a leisure day. We were foolishly expecting active labor to begin right away so my mom came to watch the kids, Devon headed straight home from work, but silence. My uterus was quiet. I paced. Cleaned. Made my space. Nothing. The day turned to night. We decided to go to bed. Contractions, FINALLY. They began to come frequently and were getting more intense. Text midwife. Text photographer. This was happening. No it wasn’t. I got in the tub, but my fears of a repeat from labor number three came true. Everything stopped. I felt sick. So sick. Was I getting an infection? I requested an IV. I felt drained. I was not thrilled to be taken right back to the days I relied on those fluids for life. I finally slept a little with the IV running. Daylight came. Labor did not. I began to doubt my choice of birthing at home again. Was this why I was so unsettled in the beginning of the pregnancy? I felt like I was being attacked. We discussed a hospital transfer at the fast approaching 24 hour mark. I asked to be left alone with Devon. We talked. A good friend gave me a pep talk. I regained my sense of self and logic. Evidence suggests 95% of PROM cases go into active labor on their own within 48 hours. I could do this. I hadn’t had any internal exams, nothing to increase the risk of infection. We agreed to wait, eat, rest, then really go at it. Walks, orange juice for energy, a blessing, pumping, stretch and sweeps, birth videos and their oxytocin. So many walks over the previous two weeks and not a word from one neighbor but for some reason everyone noticed the giant pregnant me walking that day! After the second stretch and sweep, my midwife had to leave for a couple hours. Contractions were getting really strong, but they were super sporadic and I was having to work hard to keep them coming. I sent her a text, nervous about her being far away. She had just pulled up, active labor began at the moment I read that text. 4:38 PM. I had to pee between every two contractions. Pressure. Don’t have a toilet baby. Leaning forward on the bed wasn’t cutting it any more. Sit on the floor. Feel pushy. Devon panics, summons the midwife to come in. Shorts come off. More pushy feelings. Tears come simultaneously with the woman who had been walking this road with me. This was happening. The room was so full of love. If I could bottle that feeling of intense love and laughter, I SO would. We were all laughing. So much joy. THIS is how babies should be born. I started to shiver. Hormones were changing. Rest and recovery. Experiencing this stage of labor and knowing exactly what it’s for is really neat. I sat leaning into my best friend’s arms, waiting for transition to take hold of my body. Between contractions, we decided to move to the bed. Baby’s head and my sacrum and the hard floor weren’t really friends. More pushing. I could feel my pelvis separating. But why wasn’t this working?? I began to feel frustrated. Tired. Baby’s head wasn’t right there yet. Cervical lip. Flipped to hands and knees. WHY DID I WAIT SO LONG TO TRY THIS. It was much easier to push. Felt more productive. I could feel her head sliding down. The best word I could use to describe the next five minutes (don’t quote me on that) is PRIMAL. I surrendered everything to my body. It moved, breathed, groaned all on it’s own. It was magical. Powerful. I remember the mention of “maybe we should try squatting” TOO LATE. Fetal ejection reflex. Crowning. Panting. Pause. I looked at Devon, “her head is right there. She’s coming.” Time is relative at this point. Nuchal hand, wrapped up cord. The intensity of the moment, the sudden realization that this baby girl I’ve been waiting SO LONG to hold will be in my arms in a few seconds. And just like that, relief. She’s untangled from her cord and passed between my legs to my arms. I lost it. Every second of pain, sickness, confusion, anger, impatience, feeling lost, hopeless, melted into her tiny face as she took her first breath. The hour following, I felt like I was dreaming. She was struggling a little, transitioning to using her lungs for breath. I was bleeding, way too much. But I was lost in the inbetween. I was still not back to this world, one foot was still on the other side. She had hair! She had sass, which I had already learned from the previous months we spent as one. The placenta was just as unique as the experiences leading to that moment. Bilobed, or heart shaped, with a marginal cord insertion. The moment our other kids walked in, I was once again overtaken by emotion. My big girl finally getting to meet the baby sister she so longed to have. My baby boy, suddenly had the biggest head I’d ever seen! Him and his brother were so filled with wonder. The room was so full of love. Devon and I looked at each other and both remarked on how complete we felt. Our bed filled with these little humans we created together. I hope I can keep that memory so close to the surface. I can still breathe it in. Ellavie. Her name is everything about her. Beautiful light. Something I felt so strongly would mean something to her later on. Her calling. Her purpose. She has been my beacon in this time of great darkness and trial. Faith. Every bit of her existence relied on just that. October 28, 2017 6:26 PM 6 lbs 8 oz 21 ½” All birth photography credit in this post goes to Morgan Newey!
If you are in the Salt Lake area and are in need of a fabulous birth photographer or doula, head on over to https://www.facebook.com/mlndoulaandphoto/ and check out what she has to offer. Likewise, if you are looking for a compassionate, calm, and understanding midwife that will put 150% of herself into her work, contact Liz Stika by going to https://www.twoleavesmidwifery.com/ September 29, 2011; The day that will forever be burned in my brain. This day marks the most significant change in my life. On this day, I was 34 weeks pregnant with my first child. October is National Domestic Violence Awareness Month; and for a lot of people, that really doesn't mean a whole lot. 1 in 3 women and 1 in 4 men have suffered violence at the hands of an intimate partner. But that is a very generalized statistic. You also need to include the children who witness the abuse, or are even subject to it themselves. What about pets? They're very sensitive to noise, tension, violence... The effects are so much further reaching than we realize. The implications of violence in the home extends far beyond the moments of abuse. The scars, whether physical or invisible, can last a life time and then some. There was study performed on pregnant women after the events of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001 in the United States. Those women who were pregnant during the attacks, particularly in the third trimester that developed PTSD symptoms, showed a marked drop in saliva cortisol levels. A year after the attacks, their children were also tested and showed the same drop in comparison to their peers. This showed scientists and researchers that not only does PTSD and trauma cause physical reactions, but they can be passed to the developing child. These, my friends, are called epigenetic changes. (1) And they can be passed down through multiple generations. So what does a terrorist attack have to do with domestic violence? Trauma. Trauma comes in many forms and what may be a traumatic experience to one may not affect another. But the one thing a traumatic event has in common with us all, is it's ability to CHANGE who we are; on a cellular level. So if a woman is pregnant during a traumatic event and develops PTSD as a result, she can pass the PTSD on to her child. And her child can then go on to pass their PTSD on to THEIR child. Not trying to be a Debby Downer here, guys. But this is real life. See what I mean when I say the effects of domestic abuse are far more reaching than we realize? It is a ripple effect. It was a Thursday. I remember getting up early. I couldn't sleep. I had been planning on talking to him about some hard things. I was told by two professionals to just leave while he was at work. But I couldn't do that...I still had hope. Hope he would change. Hope he still loved me enough to see how much he was hurting me. And if not me, his daughter. Hope he would stop drinking. I made arrangements for a place to live if it didn't work out the way I wanted it to. I sat on the couch waiting for the inevitable. The tv was on but I wasn't watching. He woke up in a better mood than normal. Maybe this would work?! He poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat next to me on the couch. I was rigid. He noticed. He asked why. I shrugged, the words burning the back of my throat begging to be released. He started to get agitated. My window was closing. I asked him to eat his breakfast. I knew he wouldn't keep eating once I started talking. He refused. Despite rehearsing the words in my head over and over, the ones I had so carefully compiled so as to not anger him, something else left my mouth entirely. "I think we both know that this isn't working very well." That is all I was able to say. I do not remember most of the words that were screamed back. The fury. I remember feeling like I was in a hole. I was numb, paralyzed. I was dissociated. Have you ever watched a nature show where a lion hunts his prey? When he catches the gazelle, and the look on his dinner's face is blank. Completely glazed over. Like his mind is no longer a part of his body. Like his ability to feel is gone? This is what dissociation looks like. The events that occurred over the next few hours were some of the most terrifying moments of my life. Some of which I didn't even begin to delve into for several years. I thought I was going to die. I thought my baby was going to die. More than I had ever feared before, during the months of abuse leading up to that day. A few weeks later, I met with my OBGYN for a typical checkup. I was 38 weeks pregnant. I had lost everything. All of my dreams were gone. My home I had carefully built up, was gone. I was living with family but didn't feel welcomed. Rumors were even being spread about me and my circumstances, by people I thought cared about me. I hit the low of lows and I remember sitting in my car after the appointment and sobbing. Just crying uncontrollably. All I had left was my baby, but even she felt so far away. I felt so utterly alone. As I approach the due date for my second daughter, these feelings and emotions are all so palpable. My due date is the same as it was when I was pregnant with my first daughter, six years ago. And although my life is totally different than it was back then, it is hard to navigate the emotions I feel as the days pass and I remember.
In the beginning of this pregnancy, upon learning my due date was the exact same day, I became struck with fear. Numbers are my downfall. I remember details in dates and numbers. Events that would have otherwise been forgotten or pieces lost, are crisp in my mind because of the connection with the numbers. So having the same due date, I knew it would effect my PTSD. It became so engulfing, I asked my husband for a blessing. For those not familiar with the LDS faith, we believe that God speaks to us still. We believe that one of the ways He speaks to us is through the power of the Holy Priesthood, given to those worthy of it's keys. It was during this blessing that I was told this pregnancy was to heal me. Emotionally, physically, and in every way. I don't know when I will feel as though this was a healing experience, but I do know that I have felt a significant change within myself as the anniversary of the day I left my abuser has come and gone again. For the first time ever, I thought of who I am today. I would not be this person had I not endured that trauma. And while that could be a bad thing, depending on how I look at it, it can also be a positive thing. I have gained an understanding for others in a way that I otherwise could not have, especially my own daughter. When I read about the study on PTSD during pregnancy, I felt so horrible. Guilty. I have worked so hard to protect her but look, see what she has to deal with? But then I watch her grow up and see how loving she is to others because she FEELS so deeply. She has anxiety, just like me. But she is oh so wise. And I am so incredibly thankful for her, just the way she is. One day she will learn about the day I left her biological father. One day she will be old enough to ask why. One day she will be able to understand why I am the way I am and why she is the way she is. And maybe one day she will be a catalyst for change. That sunny September morning wasn't one I would consider to be "happy". So why would I say "Happy Traumaversary"? Because I am alive and my life is beautiful. I still remember. I still fear. I have nightmares and flashbacks and I dissociate more than I care to admit. My therapist probably wonders why two years isn't enough therapy to fix me enough to function. Maybe it's just because I'm pregnant but anniversaries come and go. Might as well eat ice cream and bake cookies. (1) https://www.theguardian.com/science/neurophilosophy/2011/sep/09/pregnant-911-survivors-transmitted-trauma Pregnancy is a beautiful part of being a woman. The miracle of growing a human being starting with just two cells is incredible. Though, we all know it's not my favorite thing to go through! But I have a renewed appreciation for the process. I have grown four brains! Four functioning, whole, perfect tiny bodies. I am always really quick to complain about the physical burdens of pregnancy. Who isn't? Being nauseous so often, in pain, tired, it's not fun. But what about the other side? What about the side of pregnancy that isn't as widely talked about? The emotional toll it takes on the mom and really the whole family? There is no physical waddle or breathless huffs when it comes to emotional turmoil. And you cannot endure something so trying physically without emotional ramifications. Postpartum mood disorders have become a hot topic lately. They are more widely accepted now than ever before and doors are opening for those who suffer with them. Care providers are becoming more aware and families are being educated. There is definitely a long way to go there but progress is never bad. But what if the answer lies in the past? What if they key to treating and even preventing postpartum struggles lies within the months of pregnancy? When a woman is pregnant, all eyes are on her. Suddenly, so much revolves around her and her growing baby. She is most important. She is constantly complimented from total strangers! Asked questions about how much longer she has left, boy or girl, is this her first, when is she due... Towards the end, her phone rings off the hook; endless inquiries on how she's feeling, if baby is coming yet, if she needs anything, if she's ready. But once baby is born, it all shifts. Suddenly, that baby is #1. The calls come for the first several days still but instead of questions about her health and well-being, all attention is given to her sweet new bundle. The one that cries a lot. Sucks hard. Poops endlessly. Refuses to let anyone sleep. Sure, every mom is so proud of that baby! But as the days turn to weeks and the inquiries trickle to a stop, her world continues to shrink. The visits suddenly cease with the provider she gets to know so well during the pregnancy, and they are often replaced with visits to the pediatrician where she feels like a train wreck; since she likely hasn't showered in a week. Newer babies are born around her world and she gets brushed to the side. Alone. I have often sat with my perfect new baby and felt so much resentment. I had waited for this little person for so long! And it becomes a vicious circle of blame, guilt, resentment, and the loneliest of tears. After my third child was born, I hit a low of lows. I had severe postpartum depression and it went undiagnosed for many months. I reached out for help, finally, and had a paradoxical reaction to the medication I was given. Which is basically a fancy way of saying, it didn't work. It did just the opposite. It was then that I turned to the one thing I SWORE I would never face again: THERAPY. I went in with walls up and fury spewing from my throat. But slowly, I came unraveled. Week by week, the layers peeled back and I learned more about myself than I ever thought I would be ready for. I came to many profound realizations about my life and what kind of mother I was. One day as I sat on that little couch, I thought about the term "it takes a village to raise a child". Children are hard, sure, but a whole village? Seems a little extreme. Then it hit me. The village isn't FOR the child. It's for the mother. It takes a village to SUPPORT A MOTHER. I truly believe therein lies the answer for postpartum difficulties. We submerse mothers in love, attention, and care for nine months then throw them out the doors to care for a helpless human and then we STOP CARING. Life moves on. Days float on by. But who is more vulnerable? The helpless newborn or the caretaker in a silent crisis? Compliments turn into harsh expectations. How much weight is there left to lose? Should she be eating that? Is her baby sleeping through the night yet?
Unsolicited advice flies at her like a game of darts. Six weeks go by, OH YOU NEED TO KEEP HOUSE NOW! Dinner on the table every night by six! Floors swept, hair washed, makeup on, laundry done, take that baby for a jog! The cruelest of expectations. What better way to fuel the anxieties of a new mom than to make her feel like she is doing everything wrong? No wonder mothers are falling apart. Where did the villages go? I love being a mom. It is challenging and some days I really question what the CRAP I did to myself but there is nothing that can bring you so much intense love while making you frequently check your sanity. I always knew I wanted kids, lots of them. I never really settled on a number, I just knew I would have several. Then life kinda happened and my intro to motherhood was kinda whacko. I don't think any eighteen year old really knows what the heck they're doing with ANYTHING in life, much less motherhood. Alone, no less. I also don't think any nineteen year old knows how in the world to navigate life raising a step child with the really complicated diagnosis of Reactive Attachment Disorder. And while not physically alone, necessarily, most definitely emotionally unsupported. So why? Why did we not stop there? Gosh I really wish I could answer that. Some times babies just come, even when we don't want them to. But it always seems to play out in favor of the family as a whole. This was my first son. He tied my husband and his son, my daughter and I, all together. He came way sooner than I wanted another child to come! His pregnancy was hard. I was pretty nauseous most of the day, and that persisted up until around sixteen weeks. I slept like a rock, though. That was a major plus with a toddler! When it came down to my third pregnancy, we had actually planned it (such a weird concept!! hahaha) and we struggled with getting pregnant for several months. When I finally did get pregnant, I was sick. I was actually sick before I could take a pregnancy test. And from there, the nightmare of hyperemesis gravidarum unfolded. I was sick, 24/7. I could eat nothing more than a bite of strawberry jello or a sip of chocolate milk for six. months. I resented my baby. When we found out he was a boy, I sobbed. I did not want a boy! I wanted a girl so bad so I could be done having kids and never have to endure this hell again. And of course, I feel awful about these things now! Because having a healthy baby is such a huge blessing and I love my little boy to pieces. But the truth is, the journey of bringing him here traumatized me to the core. Because of the experiences I had with such debilitating nausea, I developed an extremely unhealthy relationship with food. I began to fear it. I became hypersensitive to it. And after the pregnancy ended, I couldn't eat so many things I once enjoyed and I couldn't stand the smells of the majority of foods. So I found myself going hours without eating. I didn't think about it and became so good at ignoring my body's hunger cues, that it really became a huge problem. During that pregnancy, I started struggling with hypoglycemia. This only worsened after having my baby. I knew I wanted a little girl, I had dreamt about her for so long! So I set out to heal my body. I took to the internet to search for causes. Why did I get so sick? And more importantly, what could I do to prevent it from happening again? It is amazing just how many theories there are on the causes of HG. Bacteria, H. Pylori, genetics, parasites, liver disease, gallstones, food allergies, blood type conflict, some people blame the father's genes, or just mom's body trying to reject the baby. I knew I needed to heal my body, even if just for the sake of feeling BETTER! So I went on a strict regimen of high count probiotics, raw vitamins, I was tested for Celiac Disease (negative..), tested and treated for H. Pylori, SIBO, ulcers, nutritional deficiencies, and went off gluten 100% regardless. I still struggled to gain weight, but I actually started to FEEL better. I was still terrified of another pregnancy but the time line I gave myself was rapidly approaching. But I needed more TIME! "Psych" says Life. Earlier this year, we found out we were expecting another baby. We found out super early on, thanks to my extreme paranoia about being pregnant (insert eye roll here). And I immediately knew I needed to pursue different care right away. I found a midwife that was familiar with HG and willing to see me right away (most providers refused to schedule before ten weeks). I actually felt totally fine, up until the day before that appointment. At five weeks, it hit me like a truck. I was immediately prescribed home health care, several anti-nausea medications, IV vitamins, and put on bed rest. After three weeks of rapid weight loss and PURE TORTURE, I was referred to Maternal Fetal Medicine; AKA a-holes. I was told I would need a feeding tube placed by one doctor, only to be told by another that HG is just crazy and in the head and I would need to lose (x) amount of weight in addition to the near 10% of body weight lost to qualify for that sort of intervention. Can you say crushing? I felt like I was dying. My baby was only the size of a raspberry and I was failing it miserably. Why was my body betraying me? Why was this happening again?? Where was God??? I had prayed SO HARD to have a healthy pregnancy free of HG, so what the heck?? I decided to take an early gender blood test at nine weeks. It would either devastate me (I know, I am so awful) or help pull me through this hell. When we got the results back and they said IT'S A GIRL!, I was shocked. I sobbed before I could mutter the words to my husband. This was it. This would be my final pregnancy. I won't have to go through this again. Several weeks have ticked by. Thanks to the generosity of neighbors and some family, the first several weeks were made more bearable as meals were brought in and laundry was folded and dishes were washed.
As I approach the halfway mark of this pregnancy, I try to patiently wait for more relief. I am so tired. There isn't anything quite as emotionally, spiritually, and physically draining as this level of sickness. People constantly ask me how I'm doing. But what do I say? My ribs hurt from vomiting so hard? I hate food? I can't shower without almost blacking out? I can't keep my blood sugar up? I'm living in my own personal hell? I feel alone in this? I hate this? Nobody likes to hear whining, especially if it lasts this long. So I keep it. Each day is about survival. My husband brings a bowl of cereal and glass of milk to the bedside before leaving for work. When I wake up, I feed most of it to the two year old I share my bed with still because I don't have the strength for that fight and I choke down as much as I possibly can. I then sit in bed until lunch time and get up only when the dog starts barking to go out. I then sit on the couch watching PBS Kids until 4 o'clock when Dr. Phil comes on then the news then the national news then Dev comes home and then leaves again to get dinner for the kids and I sit and sit and sit and sit and climb up the stairs to bed, where I sit with the two year old king on the iPad until I finally submit to the need of taking my vitamins, which always require tons of breathing and praying and hoping I won't gag them back up. In between, I try so hard to snack. Some days I get lucky and am able to eat more than three bites of a tasteless item or applesauce. The other day was a HUGE win when I randomly scarfed down an entire gluten free burrito for lunch. AND KEPT IT DOWN. But there is nothing like being hungry, starting to eat, and your body refusing to swallow. It just isn't fair! The overwhelming feeling of being alone is one thing I don't speak of. I am so alone. My kids don't want to spend time with me. I don't have the strength to take all of them out of the house. I have just recently started attending church again, which is incredibly draining but it is my only opportunity to be around other adults. Even though I hardly socialize. I feel like I have been robbed of such a tender sweet time in life. I would have more children if it weren't for this awful reality. The life of my family has been permanently altered because of these experiences. Pregnancy is no walk in the park, for sure! I don't know anyone who had a super awesome sick free happy glowing pregnancy. Growing a human isn't really SUPPOSED to be easy. I get that. I just wish that the people who constantly recommend ginger, crackers, soup broth, lemon water, preggie pops, peppermint, and all the other "try this" comments I've gotten, would understand what this was like. And wouldn't judge so harshly. Yes, I take medications known to cause birth defects. What else am I supposed to do? I know that this sweet little girl will be all worth it. I just really hope that I can look back on this time in my life and use it to help someone else. I hold onto this not being in vain. Sometimes that is all that gets me through. This post has been a long time coming. I've thought about it for several weeks, and decided to just wing it. Over the last month, I've heard the same thing from several family members regarding my daughter's upcoming surgery. Back in September of 2016, she had a horrific accident and crushed several bones in her face. She had emergency surgery to reconstruct her face and part of that was the placement of an artificial stint that went from her right eye, through her sinus cavity, into her nostril. The purpose of this was to hold the place of the lacrimal duct as her bones healed around it. Well, this coming Monday, February 27th, she is having what will (hopefully) be her final surgery to have that stint removed. This so happens to be the first anniversary of my dad's sudden passing. So there are family members that are understandably bothered by this. It will be a hard day for us all. But I did not have a choice. I have been told that I need to change the date, I need to change surgeons, they need to open another day for surgery, we can wait another month. And the answer to all of those requests is no. I will not wait another month; every day we risk catastrophic infection. I will not change doctors; my traumatized five year old is comfortable with her surgeon and I WILL NOT do that to her. The surgeon is also familiar with her specific anatomy. She has studied it, she operated on her once before. She made these repairs. The whole point of this is not to shame anyone, it is to bring up the reality of trauma. And these conversations really got me thinking. The world does not care about your trauma. (Sorry!) People will not go out of their way for your trauma. To them, it is just another day. Having the gift (curse?) of an impeccable memory and a complex case of PTSD, my life is filled with anniversaries. I don't mean the kind where we sing Happy Birthday or where I get a bouquet of roses from my husband. I mean trauma anniversaries. March 8, 2011; the day I found out I was pregnant at seventeen years old. It was also the beginning of the abuse I experienced at the hands of my first child's biological father. Mother's Day, 2011; the day he told me I HAD to put my baby up for adoption. July 24, 2011; my first memory coming out of anesthesia after emergency appendix surgery at six months pregnant was the smell of vodka. He was drunk. (This day has repeatedly been traumatic due to other events. Fun times.) September 29, 2011; the day I told him I was leaving. This resulted in some of the most terrifying moments of my life. (This also so happens to be the day my daughter had emergency surgery.) November 10, 2011; the day my daughter was born. What should have been a beautiful day was emotionally damaging. I could go on and on and on.
All the days of trauma in between, all the ones from my childhood, all the ones that have occurred since then; none of them matter to anyone. When I'm having a panic attack on the way home, the lights won't turn green for me, and traffic won't move out of my way. When I have a flashback due to a smell that triggers a memory in the middle of the grocery store, it doesn't change anything for anyone but me. When the only day available for my child to have a very necessary procedure is the day my dad left this life, I have to deal with it. And that's just it, I have to deal with it. I can't not be a mom that day, or any other hard day. The world doesn't stop for my PTSD, nor should it. And that's okay. But you know what the world does notice? Compassion. Kindness. Service. Love. So you know what I do when I'm in one of my black pits of PTSD misery? I love. I give. I melt into the couch and become useless for a bit but then I love again. I give some more. That is where true joy is found. That is where I find healing. I challenge you to do the same. The next time you feel like CRAP because you remembered something downright awful that you experienced, that you continue to experience, LOVE SOMEONE. SERVE SOMEONE. GIVE IT YOUR ALL! But don't forget to love yourself, too. Happy Heaven Day, Pops. Being a parent is HARD WORK; and being a mom is especially taxing, but I might be biased. ;) There’s no “how to” manual on being a mom and keeping small children alive, though there’s plenty of books and blogs that will tell you otherwise. I learned very fast that there was no “one size fits all” for parenthood. And the more kids I had, the more that really sank in because each and every child requires such a different style of being parented. So each parent can’t have just one way of parenting. It’s just the craziest life, being a mom. It’s what I love more than anything and what I’ve always wanted to be. But just as none of those books and blogs could have prepared me for motherhood, there really is no one talking about mothering through a mental illness. Anyone in my personal life knows that I have stopped being quiet about my illness. I spent my whole life feeling broken and crazy. I was misdiagnosed, mistreated, heavily medicated; I was so lost, embarrassed, and had no idea who I was. I still struggle with figuring that part out. (But don’t we all?) So what is it like trying to raise children all while healing yourself? What is it like when your complex trauma controls another day of your life? What do you do when your children trigger a panic attack? What happens when they make a giant mess when you are trying to keep order? Or the other billion times they’ve gotten water alllllllllllll over the kitchen/bathroom/hallway/carpet? How do you manage to get out of bed when your mind is entirely shut down after another night of battling the demons? How do you explain to your children that mommy is having another hard day and they need to please be quieter because their SWEET INNOCENT LAUGHTER sounds like nails on a chalkboard? How do you tell them that you’re not going out any time this week because your anxiety and fear prevents you from socializing or grocery shopping?
PTSD is a never ending battle with yourself. And throw parenting into the mix, and it is just shattering. It hurts SO MUCH to feel like my illness is in the way of my childrens’ happiness. It gets in the way of creating memories, having new experiences, making friends, playing at parks; it is just always there. And thinking about it all at once is just too much. It is really easy to feel like a total failure. I don’t want to raise broken children. I don’t want my children to need intensive trauma therapy, or even ANY therapy, as an adult because of me. I know the chances of that happening are probably pretty high, but my heck I am trying my absolute hardest. So what do I do? Well, I take each day minute by minute. I breathe deeply a lot. We listen to lots of music and watch lots of Disney Channel. My kids love to color pictures for me, especially my oldest, to brighten me up. I check out emotionally a lot…But then I think of all the happy memories I’ve made with my children. I think about how much they rely on me for safety and feeling protected (and I will tell you, that I am the most bear of momma bears!). I think about how happy, loving, and caring they are towards other people. I go to weekly therapy sessions. I think about how far I’ve come… When I started EMDR therapy (more on that later) over a year ago, I was angry. I would just lose it when I started to feel anxious. I was turning into the person that hurt me so much as a child and I absolutely LOATHED that. But, I am no longer that person. And I am so proud of that. Mothering through a mental illness is probably one of the greatest challenges I’ll ever face. Through treatment, I’ve found my voice, unearthed some nasty memories, processed them, and revealed more; I have lost and gained so much. Relationships have been challenged, ties have been severed, tears have (finally) been shed, lessons have been learned, friends have been made, lives have been saved, and I think I’m getting to a point where I can really say there is another side. I can see it, I just can’t quite touch it yet. My diagnosis will always be a part of me. I will always have panic attacks, OCD tendencies, depression (especially seasonal), triggers, night terrors, and flashbacks. I imagine I will often struggle with my self-esteem. But I WILL NOT let my diagnosis define my children. I’m so thankful for them and their sweet spirits. I know they are my children for a reason. They each have helped heal me in different ways, and continue to do so. So while we may not go to mommy socials or take constant trips to the zoo or even the park, we love. And I can’t tell you how much love and the little arms around my neck keep me going every minute. As for the EMDR stuff: “Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy is an integrative psychotherapy approach that has been extensively researched and proven effective for the treatment of trauma. EMDR is a set of standardized protocols that incorporates elements from many different treatment approaches. To date, EMDR therapy has helped millions of people of all ages relieve many types of psychological stress.” Read more here: http://www.emdria.org/?page=2 Find a therapist here: http://www.emdria.org/search/custom.asp?id=2337 For people with mental illnesses, the holidays can be a very difficult time. They can just be hard for people in general. They bring up memories, good and bad, and the amount of stress can be damaging.
When I became a mom, I vowed that Christmas would be the greatest of times. Every year, we've baked cookies, put up lights and decorations, I have participated in church caroling activities, we've done Secret Santa for families in need; I've just really grown to love this season. In fact, I became increasingly frustrated with people who weren't filled with holiday cheer. I referred to them as Grinches. And then this year happened. I found myself not wanting to decorate my home with my kids. I got the big fake tree out of the box and it sat for nearly two weeks before I finally got out the ornaments. Our home has no colorful lights, no cookies have been baked, and my husband will tell you about all my complaining each night when I have to move that stupid elf again. (Which, by the way, is really difficult with a young toddler that lacks understanding.) I just haven't been able to find that Christmas Spirit. I have become a total Grinch! But I have gained something I never imagined. Empathy. I've realized that people aren't being 'Grinches', they're hurting. Whether they are engulfed in the grief of a holiday without someone they love, they have been hurt around the holidays before, they've once loved but then been burned and have to spend these days alone, they have a toxic family, they're the outcast of their family, they don't even HAVE a family, they're struggling with depression, they're struggling with another mental illness, they're struggling with physical illness, they don't have enough money to provide the ever increasing demands of Christmas, maybe they lost their job, or everything keeps going wrong. There are so many reasons to struggle around the holidays. I understand this now more than ever. So how can you help a Grinch? Well, I think patience is a really great start. Not taking their negativity personal, not excluding them because you feel like they won't care, asking them how they're doing, giving them chocolate because..chocolate, and sharing your Christmas Spirit with them. Often, the rudest Grinches are the ones who need an act of service or some sort of love the most. Love is, after all, the true meaning of Christmas. So to all the Grinches out there, I hear you. I see you. I understand you. Your feelings DO matter. Do what is best for YOU! To everyone else, Merry Christmas! Now, let's hope 2017 is a little kinder to us all. Being a young mom, with an even younger appearance, I've had plenty of...fun..experiences with judgemental remarks just about everywhere I've been. It's not something you get used to, no matter how often it happens. I would be lying if I said it didn't take me off guard each time someone comments on my age and having children. So I'm here to provide you with a little list of do's and do not's. AKA: COMMON SENSE. 1. Don't Assume I remember one particular event. I was walking into Costco with my six year old step son, two year old daughter, and infant son. A nice man walked up to me and remarked on how kind it was of me to take my siblings out of the house and run errands with them for my mom. ...Say what? I don't know if it was the lack of sleep from having a baby that NEVER. SLEPT. or just being startled by some strange man talking to me in public when I was vulnerable and without protection; but the look on his face when I told him I pushed these two little children out of my VAGINA was pretty great. Don't think he will ever make such a comment again. Now, I know he was trying to be...nice? But these are MY babies. I don't care if you think this person is twelve years old and has seven children in tow; DO NOT ASSUME SHE'S THE NANNY. Or older sister. Or babysitter. Or whatever the heck else runs through your head. If you aren't able to make a safe call, DON'T SAY ANYTHING. Or maybe say something like "cute kids!" If she beams like you're handing her $10,000 it is probably safe to say she's the mom. 2. Don't Pry Society accepts the fact that you just don't say certain things to people. You don't ever ask a woman if she's pregnant, you don't ask someone how much they weigh, and you never ask someone how old they are. SO APPARENTLY THESE THINGS DON'T APPLY TO YOUNG MOTHERS. I can almost guarantee this conversation every time I take my kids somewhere: "Cute kids" "Thanks" "Are they yours?" "Yep!" "...All of them..??" "...Yes..." "How old are you? You don't look old enough to have ANY kids, but THREE?!" "Well obviously I am old enough to have three kids." "But how old are you? Are you having any more? Are you trying for another?" *INSERT THE MOST AWKWARD SILENCE EVER* I either straight up lie and tell them I'm almost thirty and internally cackle at their sudden dumbfounded facial expressions, or I tell them I'm in my twenties and I watch as they sit there in a struggle trying to guess, or I tell them the truth and watch all the assumptions scroll across their eye balls. Sometimes I really run with it. IT GETS EVEN BETTER WHEN I TELL THEM MY HUSBAND IS TEN YEARS OLDER THAN I AM. Some people are really rude and apparently can't take another breath without knowing my age. Do yourself (and me, and my children, and other moms, and their children) a favor: DON'T ASK PRYING QUESTIONS. 3. If You Ask Dumb Questions, DO Expect Answers for a Dummy Go ahead, ask me if we are trying for another baby. Because I'll just embarass you by telling you to stop asking about my sex life. (In case you missed the bird's and the bee's talk, sex makes babies.) Are they all mine? NAH. The Amber Alert should be going live soon. Do me a solid and don't write down my license plate number. Oh but I must be one of those food stamp suckers, then. Psh. Don't have kids if you can't afford them, right? Oh please. While I am very blessed to have a successful spouse so our family doesn't have to rely on government assistance, last time I checked the assistance was there for a REASON. And nobody has ANY RIGHT to judge someone based on their financial class. HUMILITY, MY FRIENDS. IT'S A BEAUTIFUL THING. How many different dad's do they all have? Five. I have three biological children and they have five different dads. Good luck figuring THAT one out. Do you know what birth control is? Why yes, yes I do. Do you know what respect is? Too bad there's not an implant for that! Don't you wish you would have waited to have kids? Ya know, enjoy life more first? Because my kids are a horrible death sentence who bring me no joy. NEXT TIME YOU WISH TO MAKE A REMARK ABOUT CHILDREN SUCKING THE JOY OUT OF LIFE, YOU BETTER NOT DO IT AROUND SAID CHILDREN. Besides, last time I checked, my kids ARE my pride and joy! They make me crazy, but they're still the root of my happiness! So next time you see a young mother in public with her kids, don't be a jerk. Don't assume she can't be their mother; she may be having a horrible day and struggling with her role AS their mom so why don't you comment on how well behaved they are? Or how cute they are? Or just shush? Why not refrain from asking her pointless, rude, none of your business questions? Her life is not your business so if you would like to spark casual conversation, do so with her sanity and childrens' presence in mind. |
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